


The Adventure of the Better Angel

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year 1887 saw a number of fleetingly mentioned but ultimately untold canon cases. This might be one of them. (See the end of the fic for more notes on this.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Better Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sherlockholmes](http://sherlockholmes.livejournal.com) as part of the ACD_Holmesfest gift exchange over on LiveJournal.

 

The year ’87 was a very busy one for Sherlock Holmes, and consequently, for me. By that time I had shaken off the worst of the effects of my injuries and subsequent illnesses from my brief military career, and returned to active practice as a medical doctor. My clientele was not as broad as I would have wished, but between the business of medicine and Holmes’ cases, I rarely had an idle hour to spare at my club. Nonetheless, I kept my membership up to date, and made an effort to spend at least a few afternoons or evenings there every month. If nothing else, it was a comfortable place to read in peace, socialize, and remind myself of what a more normal existence looked like. Not to mention it provided a convenient refuge on those days where Holmes’ mood or latest experiment required distance from our sitting-room.

When Thurston approached my reading-chair, two men in tow, I thought he meant to recruit me for a team match at billiards. I set aside my paper, but much to my surprise, Thurston met my welcoming smile with a sheepish expression.

"Hallo, John. I don’t like to disturb you if you’re otherwise engaged?"

"Not at all. I had just about finished, and there’s not much in the news, anyway. Are you looking for a fourth?"

"I’d love to, but not just at the moment." Thurston stopped, looking even more uncomfortable, then gestured to one of the two men with him. "John, this is Claude Addington. Addington, Doctor John Watson."

"A pleasure." Claude Addington was a tall, burly man, but his handshake was surprisingly tentative. I was no Holmes, but from his manner and the moisture on his palm, I guessed the man was nervous. "Did you have something you wished to speak to me about, Mr. Addington?"

"I do, if you would be so kind as to spare me a few minutes, Doctor Watson."

"Of course." I assumed that Mr. Addington meant to consult me on a medical issue, and looked around the moderately crowded room with some dissatisfaction. "If this is a private matter, we could adjourn to my consulting-room."

Thurston and his other friend took that as a cue to depart. However, if anything, Mr. Addington looked even more uncomfortable. "It is a private matter, yes, but not of the sort you might think. I’m afraid I presumed on Thurston’s acquaintance with you, and led him to believe I was in need of a doctor."

"And you are not?"

"Not yet." Mr. Addington took the chair next to mine and leaned forward, hands on his knees. "In truth, Doctor Watson, I am in need of some advice. Do you believe in angels?"

"I beg your pardon?" I had heard some remarkable things in the course of Holmes’ cases, but rarely had I been asked so unexpected a question.

Mr. Addington’s lips tightened underneath his handlebar moustache. "Four weeks ago, I would have been just as astonished as you are if anyone had asked me such a question. But that was before what happened to Blake, Seyfreed, and Tuttle…and before I received this." He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper.

I read the letter through. The signature in particular raised my eyebrows: ‘Your Better Angel.’ "I see. And the others you mentioned – they received similar messages?"

"Each of them received three such letters before –"

I held up a hand, cutting him off. "I can’t say that I am an expert in angels, Mr. Addington, but I can say that I’ve never heard of one writing by penny post. And I believe you should wait to tell the rest of your story until we have reached my rooms. It is Sherlock Holmes’ advice you need, not mine."

*****

"Watson has done us both a favour by bringing this matter to my attention, Mr. Addington." Holmes set aside the missive and turned his full attention on his new client. "From this one sample, I would say that the writer is right-handed, educated, and used a pen with a mended nib, but that is hardly unusual. The materials are common enough to be useless for anything but the most basic inferences. You said this is not the first such message you’ve received."

"It is the second, Mr. Holmes. And each of the others received three such letters. At least I think so. For all I know, there could have been more."

Holmes settled back into his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. "Pray, tell me all, from the beginning. And leave out no detail, no matter how trivial it might seem."

"Of course, although it’s difficult to know where to start. I suppose I should begin by telling you that I am a distiller by trade. My business isn’t large, but it is successful, and growing, enough so that I bought out one of my rivals. That’s how I came to earn an invitation into the Camberwell Businessmen’s Association. My rival had not been a member, but I was approached when I purchased his business from him."

"Your business is in Camberwell?"

"My original distillery is in Rotherhithe, as is my primary warehouse, and the distillery that I purchased has its facilities in Bermondsey. I live in Camberwell." The latter fact was clearly a source of pride from the way Mr. Addington straightened in his chair.

"I see. And the other businessmen – they all reside in Camberwell as well?"

"Yes."

"Any Americans in your association?"

Mr. Addington looked puzzled, as well he might. "No, not as far as I know. Certainly no one has an American accent."

Holmes nodded, but did not explain that line of inquiry. "And the purpose of the organization?"

"To help each other thrive. It’s no easy matter running a business, Mr. Holmes, much less growing one when there are so many others competing in the same line as you. No two men in the association run the same business, you understand. But by working together, helping each other, using each other’s services when it makes sense to do so – why, we can better compete with those who aren’t in the association. "

"It sounds very successful."

"It is. I won’t lie, Mr. Holmes. None of us made it to where we are by being soft. We all know what it is to drive a hard bargain, and sometimes when you’re successful, you wind up putting another fellow’s back against the wall. But we’re all legitimate businessmen. The game might get rough, but none of us have done anything wrong. Certainly none of us are doing the Devil’s work. I’ve never cheated anyone out of anything, no matter what that letter says."

"At some length," Holmes murmured, glancing once again at the closely-written sheet. "So, as to these letters. Who first received one, and what happened from there?"

Mr. Addington ran one thick thumb along the length of his jaw. "Blake was the first one to mention it, but looking back, I can’t help but wonder if one of the others mightn’t have had one, too. Martin retired awfully swiftly."

A trace of impatience flitted across Holmes’ face. "But Blake was the first one of you that you are certain received one of these letters?"

"Yes. He’d been a drayman before working his way up to owning and running his own drayage business, and he thought it was funny. He talked about it to anyone and everyone, including me. This was about seven months ago. He told me that this was the third he’d had, and he hoped that since he’d declined the angel’s suggestions thrice, he’d not be bothered again."

"And what happened to him?"

"He stumbled out of his office and straight into the path of one of his wagons. At the time, it was thought to be an accident." Mr. Addington shrugged uncomfortably. "Everyone knew Blake liked to drink at his guild meetings, and he’d been at one earlier in the evening before coming back to his office."

"Did he usually make a habit of returning to the office after such a meeting?"

"He did more often than not. He spent more time in his office than at his home, and for all that he could be rough-worded and uncouth with his men, he didn’t like upsetting his wife. She had a strong dislike for drinking, and had been trying to get him to take the pledge for years."

"I see. And when did the next person start receiving letters?"

"Not until a month and a half ago. That was Seyfreed. He ran a pottery. His brother runs it now."

"What happened to him?"

"Died in his sleep. It wasn’t a surprise – he’d been ill for some time – but all the same, coming after Blake… Well, he’d been upset about the letters, and after he died, some of us started to wonder if there might be something to it."

"Which brings us to – Tuttle, you said the name was?" I asked, jotting down another note in my note-book.

"Yes. His family had been making jam since his grandfather’s day, but he was the one who really turned it from a small business into a force to be reckoned with. Before he got his letter, I’d have said that he was one of the coolest, most unflappable men you’d ever likely meet."

"Letter?" Holmes repeated the singular word with interest.

"As far as I know, he only got the one. He told me and the others about it at our last association dinner, right before announcing that it had so upset his wife’s delicate health, he was going to take her on a tour of Spain in hopes of improvement." Addington shook his head. "I never thought he’d cut and run like that, but then again, Tuttle is a deeply religious man, and his wife’s even more so."

Holmes’ expression grew intent. "You say ‘is.’ I take it he’s still among the living?"

"The last I heard. He and his wife left for Spain three weeks ago, and as far as I know, they’re fine. But he’s taken the angel’s advice and turned aside from his business, for all intents and purposes, so why shouldn’t he be?"

"Hmm." Holmes dropped his hands from underneath his chin and reached once again for the letter. "And this is the second letter you’ve received. When did it come?"

"Two days ago, in the last mail delivery of the day."

"When did you receive the first? And did you keep it?"

"Seven days ago, at the same time – the last postal delivery of the day. I’m afraid that I threw it into the fire in a fit of temper. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, it’s been weighing heavily on my mind ever since. I’ve no intention of changing my business or giving it up, but I’ve no desire to just sit around and wait to see what happens, either. I’ve already sent my wife and children off to the country, just in case."

"A wise precaution." Holmes shook his head. "I do not have enough data. It is a shame that you burned the first letter. If you receive a third, preserve it and send for me at once. In the meantime, take every reasonable precaution. I will embark upon my own investigations, and hopefully be able to shed some light upon this matter."

Addington sprang to his feet and vigorously shook Holmes’ hand. "Thank you. You have lifted a great burden from my mind, you and Doctor Watson. I will do exactly as you say."

I escorted Mr. Addington to the door. When I returned to the sitting-room, I found Holmes brooding in his chair. "An ugly problem, to be sure, Watson," he told me. "On the one hand, this could be little more than a series of incidents linked solely by the rantings of an unknown individual, one who is either American, or more likely simply familiar with the famous speeches of Mr. Lincoln. In fact, the diverse manners of misfortunes suggest as much. Yet there is something fundamentally disturbing about the language in this letter. Despite its protestations of only wanting to help, this is no benevolent ‘angel’ behind the pen." He sat thinking a moment more, then sprang from his armchair and disappeared into his bedroom. When he emerged, I was unsurprised to see him in the guise of a sea-captain, a character he had often found useful in dockside and maritime investigations.

"Rotherhithe?" I surmised.

Holmes’ grin flashed briefly from the depths of his false whiskers. "Don’t hold dinner on my account."

*****

I saw very little of Holmes over the next two days. Camberwell is distant enough to Baker Street – and near enough to some of the areas where Holmes regularly gleans information – that I was certain he had one of his ‘hidey-holes’ in the area, as he called them, a place to change clothes and alter his appearance as need be. And being Holmes, that would be more than sufficient for his needs, or so he would claim. Food and rest were far from being priorities while he was on a case.

On the second day, I received a brief telegram from him:

> WATSON STOP ASK THURSTON HOW HE MET CLIENT STOP SH FINAL STOP

I had been somewhat curious on that point myself, so after seeing my last patient of the day, I made my way to our club. Thurston was very regular in his attendance, and I did not have long to wait before I saw him enter the main room. Before long, we were at the billiard table, deep into a game.

"So how do you know Mr. Addington?" I asked him as he lined up his shot.

Thurston started, and his shot went wide. "That’s a strange question to ask."

"It’s a strange thing for you to do," I retorted mildly. I had not lived with Holmes all those years for nothing. Thurston’s behaviour, and the jump that made him miss his mark, were plainly signs of some kind of guilt. I pushed on. "You don’t know him at all, do you?"

"Confound it, John, you’re getting just as peculiar as your friend Holmes, pulling thoughts out of people’s heads like that. How did you know?"

"It was simple. I haven’t seen you miss an easy bank shot like that in years."

"Well, that’s true enough. No, I don’t know the fellow. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend, but I’d never heard his name a week ago." Thurston ran one uneasy hand over the back of his neck. "The truth of the matter is that he explained that he had a sensitive matter he needed help with, but he didn’t feel that Mr. Holmes would take him seriously on his own. He thought that maybe if he explained to you instead…"

"I see."

"You have to admit, you’re far more approachable than your friend. God knows I still find him uncomfortable, and I’ve years of your stories and several brief interactions with the man to get used to him." Thurston looked increasingly uncomfortable. "I saw no harm in it, although I turned down the bottle of spirits he offered as a thank-you, just on the principle of the matter. What’s wrong – didn’t he have a case after all? Or was his case too dull for Mr. Holmes?"

"No, not dull," I said, as much to myself as Thurston. "In fact, I suspect Holmes will be even more interested when he learns this."

A cloud of pipe-smoke greeted me when I opened the sitting-room door that evening. Holmes was in his chair, eyes bright above the bowl of his clay pipe. "Did you enjoy your club, Watson?" he greeted me.

I did not bother to ask how he knew I’d been there. Instead, I told him what I had learned from Thurston.

"Hum!" was his only reply. He smoked quietly for a few minutes, mulling things over in his mind, before looking back at me. "It’s a complicated business. I’ve spent the last few days wandering from watering-hole to work-yard, tradesman’s office to financial hall, gathering data. Addington’s business is financially involved. He strained his resources to the limit to buy the second distillery, but his orders are up, and his business looks as if it will weather the storm well enough. Blake’s death is still something of a nine-day’s-wonder in the taprooms, even months after it occurred. It was more difficult to learn anything about Seyfreed there, other than he had a strong hand over his business despite his long-term ill health, and that his brother is nowhere near as ruthless as he was."

"What was his ailment?"

"Interesting that you should ask that question, Watson." Holmes gave me one of his thin-lipped smiles. "I heard nothing more than he had a ‘sour stomach’ that made his temper a caution. I was hoping you might be willing to speak to his doctor, for a more formal diagnosis."

"I imagine I could come up with a pretext to discuss his former patient, if you know the doctor’s name."

"A Doctor Willis, of Aguire Street."

"I do not know him personally, but I am sure I can make an appointment with him. I’ll try to see him tomorrow."

Holmes’ smile was small, but genuine. "I’ll leave that to you, then."

"What of you?"

"I will continue on my own lines." Holmes shook his head. "It’s the timing," he muttered, almost to himself.

"How so? What timing?"

"Of the letters. Blake’s letters are well-known, and they happened seven months ago. Why such a delay between that incident and the others? Why single out these particular men, especially Tuttle? There are others in the association with far worse reputations for hard dealings, ruthlessness, and temper. There must be some other connection I’m missing, some common thread that binds all these men together."

"Unless the angel made a mistake," I agreed idly.

Holmes froze in his chair, his pipe halfway to his lips. His eyes took on that distant expression that indicated his mind was racing along those paths of logic, deduction, and observation that seemed so obvious to him, but remained mysterious to the rest of us until he explained them.

"Watson," he said at last, "you have a positive genius for illuminating a problem from a different angle. Thank you, my dear fellow. Now I must beg you to leave me to think in silence for at least the next hour."

"Of course, Holmes." I picked up my latest novel.

Three hours later, when I retired for the evening, Holmes was still sitting silently in his chair, puffing on his pipe.

*****

Holmes was already out by the time I made my way from my room to the breakfast-table. A single slice of toast missing from the stone-cold rack and a dirty tea-cup told me that he had remained in Baker Street long enough to minimally break his fast, as much as he would ever do during a case. Mindful of my promise to him, I lost no time in ringing Mrs. Hudson for my own repast. After a hasty meal, I set out to pay a call on Dr. Willis.

I returned in mid-afternoon not the much wiser for my pains. Dr. Willis had been very congenial, more than happy to discuss the physical peculiarities of his former patient with a fellow medical-man. Indeed, he seemed gratified for the chance to talk to a fellow doctor, and it took some effort on my part to keep steering the conversation back to Seyfreed’s chronic ulcers without appearing rude or giving him cause to be suspicious. Unfortunately, no amount of medical good-will could clarify why Seyfreed had died recently. His condition had fluctuated for years, sometimes mild, sometimes with the most severe symptoms of vomiting, blood in the stool and regurgitation, great pain, and a near-total inability to ingest anything. Dr. Willis was neither surprised by his passing, nor would he have been surprised if the man had lived another fifteen or twenty years. And naturally enough, there had been no inquiry beyond the norm into his death, not given his known state of health. Certainly there had been no examination of his digestive tract, which would have been instructive.

"You’ve an urgent telegram, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson informed me as I came in. "You and Mr. Holmes both. His came just after you left; yours arrived an hour ago."

The message was terse and to the point:

> DR WATSON STOP HAVE RECEIVED THIRD LETTER STOP PLEASE COME AT ONCE STOP ADDINGTON FINAL STOP

I had spent most of my day travelling back and forth, and it was a long journey to Camberwell, but I saw no alternative. "Mrs. Hudson, I’m afraid I will not be in for dinner after all."

"A patient?"

"A case. One of Holmes’ clients needs help, but as he is not here, I will have to do."

"I’ll see to summoning a cab." Mrs. Hudson calmly turned towards the back of the house. "Shall I make up a sandwich for you, Doctor? Something for you to take with you?"

"That would be wonderful, thank you." Once again Mrs. Hudson proved that she was the best landlady in London – and one of the most understanding.

Despite her calm efficiency, however, I felt somewhat uneasy. On impulse, I went upstairs to our sitting-room and rummaged in my desk for my revolver. Slipping it into my pocket, I quickly penned a note for Holmes letting him know where I had gone. It was just possible that his urgent telegram was _not_ from Addington, but a summons from a Yard inspector, another client, or from one of his broad range of correspondents. I wanted to be sure Holmes knew where to find me, and that our client needed his aid.

By the time I returned downstairs, Mrs. Hudson had my dinner neatly wrapped in a napkin, and a cab standing at the door. I handed her my note with instructions to give it to Holmes at the very first opportunity, picked up my hat and bag, and hurried out the door.

*****

"Thank you so much for coming, Doctor Watson." A thin sheen of perspiration glistened on Addington’s forehead as a servant showed me into the library. It was a pleasant room, meant for both business and leisure, but its comfortable confines did little to calm the man. Every movement betrayed his nervous tension. "I admit I have been utterly distracted since receiving the third letter. I would be very glad of your advice."

"Your distress is very natural, but I am sure Holmes is hard on the track of the sender." I looked towards the desk, expecting to see some sign of it, but the surface was entirely bare of any kind of paper. "What time did it arrive? It must have come by an earlier post than the other two."

Addington jumped. "Why do you say that?" he demanded. "What do you know of it?"

"The time on your wire told me as much," I said as soothingly as I could. "You sent it before the last post of the day."

"Oh yes, of course." The words sounded reasonable, but if anything Addington’s tension appeared to rise.

"What did the letter say?" I asked, hoping that discussing the threat openly would help Addington steady his nerves.

"It’s much the same as the others. Here, let me show you." He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket in almost exactly the same manner as he had done at my club.

To my inexpert eye, the handwriting and materials appeared about the same. However, the missive itself was much shorter than the previous one. I frowned at the specific mention of his family and their removal from the city. No wonder Addington was in such an overwrought state. Even though the words merely suggested that Addington turn his back on his business and the city and join them, it was disturbing to know that this ‘angel’ knew of the change. "I can see why you are so concerned," I told him. "However, I am here now, and I am sure Holmes will join us shortly. Between us, I am certain that we can come up with precautionary measures that will keep you safe until this person can be apprehended."

"That sounds all well and good, Doctor, but I must be free to conduct my business. I cannot simply hide in my house."

I opened my mouth to remind him that his life was more important than his business. Just in time, I remembered what Holmes had said about Addington’s involved financial affairs. Undoubtedly he felt that his business was his life, or at the very least his livelihood, and that he could not afford to neglect it. "No one has asked you to hide, Mr. Addington," I temporized. "I’m certain Holmes is close to a solution. A few inconveniences, such as one or two days of caution, are a small price to pay for freedom from this threat."

"You are right." Addington took a deep breath and finally appeared to relax a trifle. His broad shoulders softened, and his twitching hands steadied at his sides. "Forgive me, Doctor Watson; I’ve been petulant and ungrateful. You‘ve come here to help me, and I haven’t even offered you a chair. Please, sit down. We might as well be comfortable."

"No apologies are necessary, I assure you," I said as I sat down in one of the two wing chairs that flanked the fireplace. "I understand your anxiety."

Addington smiled at me. "I suppose you are used to anxious patients, and therefore have built up a stock of patience." He laughed a little at his own joke, a welcome change from the taut bundle of nerves he had shown when I arrived. "Still, my behaviour was churlish, and I must make amends." He gestured towards a case in the corner, where a number of bottles stood prominently displayed, flanked by crystal tumblers. "Allow me to pour you a measure of my own spirits. One of the advantages of being a distiller is that I can command my own private reserve, extra-aged whiskies and special recipes that are not generally available." He picked up one of the smallest bottles and poured a generous measure into two glasses before handing one to me with another smile. "This is one of my favourites. Try it, and tell me what you think."

I lifted the glass, admiring the colour of the spirit. The aroma was reminiscent of brandy, but with a smoky edge I associated with the Scotch whiskeys I enjoyed. "It looks and smells lovely. What is it?"

"A recipe of my own design, perfected after many wrong steps. Go on, try it."

I started to raise the glass to my lips, aware of Addington’s eyes fixed intently on my every move. Something about the fervour of his attention made me pause. The complete change in his demeanour – from anxiety-ridden businessman to avid connoisseur without the slightest bit of care or attention to anything else – struck a warning note. If Addington was this variable, it was up to me to remain alert and on guard. Reluctantly, I set the glass aside and gave him a rueful smile. "I will happily enjoy some of this splendid spirit at some other time, but for now, I think it safest if I decline. We need to remain on our guard."

"Oh, come now!" Although a grown man, the distiller’s face contorted in what I could only describe as a pout. "Your caution is laudable, and certainly appreciated on my behalf, but a single drink cannot do much harm, surely. You are a grown man."

I bristled inwardly at the implication that I might not be able to hold my liquor, but held my ground. "I would not take the chance of any softening of my guard, however slight. Your safety is paramount. Holmes would say the same." Addington’s scowl did not lessen, and I tried to soften his disappointment. "I promise you, I will gladly toast you with the spirit of your choice as soon as we have brought this case to an end."

"Well, in that case." Addington turned away and walked back to his desk. I sighed, glad that the man had decided to see reason. I understood that he was under a great deal of strain, but still…

My thoughts ground to a halt as Addington spun back towards me. The gas-light glinted off of the small revolver he held in his hand. "I’m afraid I really must insist that you drink your glass, Doctor Watson."

I sat still, thinking furiously. My own gun sat in my coat pocket. There was no way that I could reach it without alerting Addington, giving him plenty of time to shoot me, if that is what he intended. My best chance was to try and get him to talk, to stall for time and hope for a distraction. "I don’t understand."

"You don’t need to understand. You simply need to drink the contents of that glass."

"And if I refuse?"

Addington smiled thinly. It was a vastly different expression than any he had shown me before. I felt a shiver down my spine as I realized that whatever else was afoot, Addington was not quite sane. "That’s not really an option you want to choose. You either drink, or I shoot you where you sit."

"I can’t think shooting me is part of your plan," I commented, making no move to pick up the drink. "You’ll alarm the house."

"My retainers are trained not to question what I tell them. And I chose this room because these French doors here lead out to a balcony, where it’s plausible that an intruder might just be lurking. A terrible accident, that you were harmed instead of me." Addington shrugged, but his aim never wavered. "So you see, it’s all the same to me. For you, however, drinking is far less painful than being shot, I imagine."

Having been shot before, I had little reason to doubt that the initial choice would be far less painful if I picked the glass. The long-term effects, however, might be far more deadly. I had survived bullets. I wasn’t nearly as certain I could survive whatever was in that drink. Nonetheless, I picked up the glass, as another way to stall for more time, but I was careful to switch it to my off-hand. "Why do this?" I asked him. "If I must drink, I would at least like to understand your reasoning for forcing me to it."

"I had no intention of involving you, Doctor, I promise you that. I needed Holmes, because some of my fellow association members grew suspicious when fortune favoured me the second time, much less the third. Then inspiration came to me, as it always does, my guardian angel. My angel never fails me. If I too was seen to be threatened, suspicion would turn elsewhere."

For a moment, I thought I had a chance as Addington’s concentration wavered. Then his gaze sharpened, and I was forced to fall back once again on words. "But why come to me? Why enlist Holmes?"

"I could hardly convince anyone that I felt threatened if I did not seek help, could I? As for you, Doctor, by approaching you first, I thought to make a better impression on Mr. Holmes." He grimaced. "That was my only intention, I assure you. Everything else that follows now is because Mr. Holmes refused to believe in my angel. He ignored my telegram of this morning, and is close to learning everything, as you said. But my angel is better than I am, and more clever, too, and saw the way clear. You can provide the distraction I need, something to preoccupy Mr. Holmes and throw him off the track long enough for the last of my preparations to fall in place. My family is safe now, out of his reach. Two more days, and I will have the funds I need to follow."

"Harming me will not save you from Holmes," I told him. Unwise, perhaps, but it was such a fundamental truth that I could not remain silent.

"Indeed not," came an unexpected – and entirely familiar – voice from the door. My eyes flew to Holmes, who stood pale-faced but calm in the library entrance. His eyes flicked once in my direction, and I saw the concern in their steely depths before his attention returned fully to Addington. "In fact, if you harm Watson, you will not leave this room alive."

"You!" An expression of deepest loathing and sheer hatred contorted Addington’s face out of all recognition. "You're in no position to dictate to me. You might have discovered my plans, but I still have a gun, and you do not. Make one move towards me, and I will shoot Doctor Watson dead, and then yourself."

"If you pull that trigger, I will tear you apart with my bare hands," Holmes stated coldly. "Give it up, Addington. You cannot escape me."

It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it, just as I knew that Holmes had done it deliberately to try and goad Addington into changing his aim. To remove me from the line of fire and ensure my safety by placing himself in danger.

My hand flew to my pocket even as Addington snarled and shifted. Before he moved his hand halfway between myself and Holmes, my revolver was out, and I pulled the trigger. Two shots rang out almost as one, and Addington dropped to the carpet with an agonized scream.

"Well done, Watson!" Holmes cried as he sprang to restrain the writhing villain on the floor. I hastily set down my still-untasted drink and moved to keep my revolver trained on Addington until Holmes had finished securing his arms behind his back. When that was done, my friend swiftly scrutinized me with one of his all-encompassing gazes. "You’re all right?" It was more of a demand or a statement than a question.

"Yes, quite. His bullet – he missed you?"

"It struck the bookcase. Your aim was excellent, and as usual I have reason to be thankful for your habit of remembering to slip your revolver into your pocket. I believe this is the first time, however, that I am grateful that you rarely spill a drop of whiskey, even under the most trying circumstances."

I was utterly confused. "I beg your pardon?"

A loud pounding came from somewhere below stairs. "That will be Lestrade and his men, I believe," Holmes remarked. "And that glass that you did not spill should go a long way towards explaining the danger you were in, even without Addington’s gun. I would be very surprised indeed if a simple chemical analysis did not turn up a very unhealthy additive to your drink."

*****

"It was your remark, Watson, that set me on the right path," Holmes told me later, as we sat together by the fire at Baker Street. "I had considered that Addington might be involved from almost the very first, but the circumstances surrounding Blake’s death argued strongly against it. While Blake held one of Addington’s notes, and for a not-inconsiderable sum, Addington was absolutely out of the country for the month before Blake’s death, and for six weeks afterwards. And while it is always possible to hire things done, such as mailing letters from a local post-box, hiring someone to poison a man is much more difficult a matter."

"So how did he do it?"

Holmes raised his brandy and tilted it towards me in a mocking salute. "He didn’t."

"What?" I ignored my own drink and stared at Holmes. "Then who did?"

"No one, if you mean Blake’s death. Everything suggests that it was as accidental as everyone claimed. I found witnesses to nearly every move he made that night, and nothing suggests that he ingested anything that others did not also ingest, with no ill effects for them. Well, not out of the ordinary. There is no question Blake was worse for drink."

"And the letters?"

"Ah, now that is where your remark led me to consider matters in another light. Addington had mentioned that Blake’s wife was strongly opposed to his drinking, and had in fact tried to get him to swear it off. It occurred to me to wonder if she might have tried more than one method to encourage him to give it up."

Realization dawned on me. "His wife wrote the letters to Blake?"

"Yes. It took me some time to get her to admit it, which is why I returned to Baker Street twenty minutes after you had left, despite my earlier start this morning. She still harbours a deep guilt over the loss of her husband, though she meant well by her actions, and they played no true part in his demise. She still sees her good intentions as having helped pave the road to his death. I just hope that she does not take the blame on herself for inspiring Addington to copy her letters. He was mad, but in that cunning fashion that sometimes accompanies true madness. It is impossible to say whether he saw the opportunity to try and scare off his largest creditors with the angel letters, or whether he truly believed he was giving them three chances to change their minds and mend their ways before he attempted to poison them. Either way, he succeeded with both of his targets. Tuttle was truly frightened, and Seyfreed’s housekeeper remembers Addington offering him a small bottle of a special cordial to help with his digestion."

"I wonder if I dare tell Dr. Willis the true cause of his patient’s demise," I mused. "On the one hand, I imagine he would be gratified to know that no neglect of his led to his patient’s death. On the other hand, having met him, I think it’s likely that he would blame himself regardless, for not noticing something ‘wrong’ with his sudden end."

"He is likely to read the truth of the matter in the papers, so while your intention to spare him pain is admirable, you would do better to tell him directly, I think." Holmes took a sip of his brandy, then regarded me curiously. "And speaking of good intentions, I appreciate your rushing off to aid one of our clients, no matter how villainous he proved to be. I know my Watson well enough to realize that you will always act to protect others, no matter what the danger. But what inspired you to bring your revolver?"

I had wondered that myself, in the immediate aftermath. "I don’t exactly know," I told Holmes truthfully. "I would like to say that it is because I too had started to suspect Addington, but that wasn’t the case at all. It was simply the impulse of a moment."

"An inspired impulse, as it undoubtedly helped save both our lives," Holmes said dryly. "Though your logic remains faulty, Watson, your instincts are impeccable. And as today’s events prove, your guardian spirit is truly the better angel."

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: In The Five Orange Pips, Watson enumerates a number of cases from the year ’87, including the "Camberwell poisoning case" and "The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber." This story was inspired by those two titles, in that I set the poisoner in Camberwell, and his profession (distiller) was inspired by paradol, an active flavour ingedient in Grains of Paradise, an ancient brewing spice. However, as there was no winding of a dead man’s watch (as mentioned in reference to the Camberwell poisoning case) or any spice-infused chamber (just a library), this story cannot reasonably be considered the "true story" behind either of those referenced events. After all, Watson would never mislead his readers, would he?


End file.
